Buffy’s funeral
by JustJensThoughts
Summary: I wrote this a few years ago to give us a glimpse of what those first days without Buffy were like. Written from Spike’s POV.


*knock knock knock*

"Spike, can you get the door, please," Willow called down the stairs. Three days it had been since...the incident. Even to himself, Spike couldn't yet say what had happened. Three eternal days had turned him from a vampire into a zombie. His brain was completely shut down, emotionally he was beyond numb and physically he was all but unaware of his own existence. He was driven by one thing, but unlike a zombie, it wasn't the need for human flesh.

"I made a promise to a lady," he mumbled to himself, reminding himself of his purpose, reminding his feet to move forward. The depression was a crippling, heavy weight. The thing was tomorrow and Willow was busy, he told himself. The birds had been working, planning for two days straight, almost too tired and sad to go on, they were. So, Spike had been staying at the Summers' residence most hours of the day and night. Someone had to look after Dawn. She couldn't be around the planning or left to her own devices. The incident after her mum died proved that she couldn't be trusted. Spike may have been a bad influence at the time, but now he had to be responsible. Then, the minute discussions for arrangements arose, she began wailing uncontrollably.

Spike shuddered thinking about some of the things she'd cried out in her grief. Like, 'my whole family is dead.' and 'I'm all alone now.' Or even worse, 'why can't I get through to my dad?' The raw emotion in her voice hit him deep in the gut and made him want to heave with a kind of grief-ridden illness. Dawn was the only one who knew the depth of his loss. 'Protect her,' Buffy had said. So, he stayed with her, letting her squeeze him 'round the neck and cry until she finally fell asleep, telling her over and over that he would make sure she'd never be alone, coaxing food into her. The first time he tried to get her to eat it only ended in screaming and tears on both sides, but he was doing his best to keep her going. She had the others, of course, but they were busy or didn't have the patience. Spike didn't just feel obligated to be there for her; he wanted to be, because, again, Dawn is the only one who understood.

"Made a promise to a lady," he muttered again before opening the door. Just as it was unlatching, he felt a stir of anger, loathing? Whatever the emotion was, it had no hold on him and he let it pass, but the opening of the door revealed the nature of its presence. On the other side of the threshold, Angel's eyes narrow simultaneously with Spikes'.

"Spike," Angel practically spits his hostile greeting. The one word holds three lifetimes worth of loathing and annoyance.

"Angel," he spat back, wanting to keep up appearances, but the depression kept him down. 

"What're you doing here," Angel demanded.

"Time and a place, Mate. This isn't it." He let Angel in without another word.

"Angel?" Dawn appeared at the top of the staircase and Angel tried to give her a smile, but it faltered and died on his lips.

"Hey, Dawnie," he said as the crying teen ran into his arms. Normally, Spike would be irked at her apparent betrayal. That's his niblet, but those times weren't normal, and she needed every ounce of support she could garnish.

Spike made his way to the kitchen, so as not to witness the tears and Angel's gag-worthy performance. He wasn't even bothered by Xanders' presence. "Hey, Man," the whelp nodded and Spike returned it. "There's not a whole lot of long sentences happening around here. At least, not outside of funeral talk."

Spike's head snapped up at the use of the F word. He'd been avoiding it for a lot of reasons. It forced him to feel, to face the truth. To think about...her… Remember her voice and all the sweet, violent, perfect words that she said. Like that song she liked. Her voice popped up in the back of his mind. 

'You want something nicer? Look at my poor, neck, all bare and tender and exposed...all that blood just pumping away.' It wasn't pumping anymore.

"Sorry," Xander said after seeing Spike's reaction to what he said.

"S'alright, Mate. S'what it is. A funeral."

"You know I hate you-" Xander said out of nowhere and Spike made eye contact with him. Well, yeah, but why kick that dead horse right then? "I do," Xander continued, hopefully reaching his point some time tonight. "But, I appreciate what you're doing for Dawn. I don't know why you're doing it and I don't trust you, but she seems to like you...for some unknown reason. And I don't know how to make this better, I can't, so thank you."

Spike blinked back the stinging threat of tears as Xander clapped him on the shoulder as he walked passed. He turned his head to tell the boy, "I made a promise to a lady." 

Xander nodded again and left the room. Good, he can go be Angel's problem.

As he stood in the kitchen alone, in the dark, he became unsure of what to do with himself. He glanced at the door, knowing he could leave via his usual route; out the backyard and down the alley. What was stopping him? Was it his promise? No, Angel was here and he wasn't needed. At least, not for now. Uncertainty is what stayed his hand. He didn't know if he would ever be in that house again. Bugger the house itself, s'just a house, but her essence still filled the place.

He plopped down on her bed before he even knew he'd entered her room. He sighed deeply before looking at his surroundings. He'd been avoiding this, just like all of it, but he already missed her like a heartbeat and needed to feel close. Her scent hit him like a brick wall, her perfume still fresh in the air, though the glass of water she kept beside her bed sat stagnant. Clothes on hangars were strewn on the bed. She must've had trouble deciding what to wear that night. It didn't matter to Spike what she wore, she looked beautiful. She always looked beautiful. The sight of a hair band sends him back into a flashback from the last time he'd seen her wear it.

'Dum dum da dum, dum dum da dum….Do you wanna be Spike or just William the Bloody?....The man I love...hahahah!'

Her laughter rang in his head, almost seemed to echo in the room.

"I failed you," he cried, eyes filled to the brim. He squeezed them shut and dropped his head into his hands. The closing of his own eyes only made him see hers behind his closed lids. Her unyielding, fierce green bore into his own endless blue. Her eyes sparkled with life and her skin glowed of the sun itself. She batted her long lashes before she leaned in and brushed her lips soft, yet firm against his own. The memory of the best moment of his life felt so real and he could see her bright as day, hear her clear as a bell. 'What you did for me and for Dawn, that was real. I won't forget it. I won't forget it. I won't forget it. Do you think I don't live with the cloud of Drusilla hanging over my head? I won't forget it…'

"What bloody good does that do me now?!" His voice echoed in the empty room. "What good did it do you? Bloody git! For all my big talk and promising you everything and I couldn't even keep you alive! I couldn't make you love me and I couldn't even convince you my love for you was real. I couldn't do a damn thing!" He sniffled and wiped angrily at the stream of tears.

"Spike?"

He looked up to see Tara at the doorway.

"Sorry," he gasped, knowing he shouldn't be in there. "I'll go."

"N-n-n-no. Please, stay," she said, sitting beside him in the dark. "You know, m-m-m-maybe it's none of my b-b-business, but I noticed that you don't s-s-s-say her name anym-m-m-more." Her probing was gentle, yet still invasive.

"Yeah," Spike mumbled. "S'not really your business."

"I was angry, too when I lost someone. My mom." Tara looked so understanding and sympathetic. It pissed him right off. How dare she? These weren't his emotions, he wasn't her man and he had no right to feel the sting, the gut wrenching loss of Buffy. He was just here to help Dawn and pretend it was all a bad dream. How dare Tara show him kindness that he doesn't want, how dare she make it real!

"Well, this isn't your mum and I don't care how you felt," Spike snapped at her, narrowing his eyes. She only stared back, the stuttering girl he thought would run from his gaze stared him down right back. She cocked her head to the side before letting out a deep sigh. "Say her name, Spike."

"What? No! What's it to you?"

"Say it. We all need some healing and it'll make you feel better."

"Better," he barked back in a short, hard laugh. The bird is hysterical! Or insane. "There is no better for me! Not anymore, not since….Buffy," he said, unable to fight it as he stared at a picture of her. Dawn was in her lap, laughing and Buffy's face was poked out from behind her, an expression of mock horror painted her amused face as her mouth made an adorable O. His head went back into his hands, gripping his hair to fight back the wrenching sobs, the maniacal breakdown he knew he would eventually have to face.

"Her name is Buffy Summers and you love her and she died. It's okay to say it. In fact, you probably should." She walked to the door in silence. "If you want to sleep in here tonight, I'll never say a word. Everyone is avoiding it in here, just keep the door closed." She pulled the door shut as she backed out.

Once he was alone, he took her hangers and put them back in the closet, lined up her shoes and made the bed. She would like it tidy. Then he kicked off his boots and slipped under the blanket, wrapping himself in her scent. He lay staring at her polaroids with her friends and her family, tracing her laugh lines in with a million other pre-existing memories. For the first time since her death, he let the memories of Buffy flood his mind, forcing himself to see every detail in his mind. And Spike fell asleep at some point; numb and cried out.

The sizzling of bacon and people bustling about woke Spike the next morning. Good thing, too. Another fifteen minutes and that window he was facing would be exposing him to direct sunlight. He rolled over to see a pair of big, blue eyes staring at him. "Bloody hell!" He jumped about halfway out of the bed.

Dawn half smiled. "Check me out, sneaking up on a vampire. By the way, it's just me and I don't mind you being in here. In fact, it's kinda comforting. Xander probably wouldn't like it and Angel would make a fuss, but don't worry. I won't say anything. Still surprised I snuck up on ya?" She sat cross-legged on the floor, half ready for the day with a brush in her hand. He glanced at the clock on Buffy's nightstand. 7:15. Too bloody early, or late. It didn't matter either way, the girl needed someone to pal around with. He could see the strain it put on her to pretend like she was her normal, cheery self.

"Oh, there are others who've snuck up on me, bit. You just won't get to ask them about it."

She giggled as she started running the brush through her hair.

"No one knows I'm in here, though, right?"

"Nah, it wouldn't be too hard for them to figure it out, though. With Angel being here and all, that just leaves the couch and the basement and nobody expects either of you to stay down there with that...thing."

The thing Dawn referred to was the Buffybot. After Glory had knocked its' head off, Willow went back for the parts. There was talk about using the bloody thing for slaying and taking niblet to the doc and whatnot. Spike hated the thought. No so very long ago having the bot around seemed like a pretty good idea, harmless. Now he found its' existence kind of offensive.

"Anyway," Dawn continued. "No one is mad…. Wanna hang out?"

He recognized the look on her face. If left to her own devices, she'll do something stupid rather than face her emotions. He knew it well by now. Spike didn't blame her. In fact, he used to have fun getting into all sorts of hijinks with the youngest Summers girl, but that was when her mum was around to reprimand her, and Buffy was around to protect her. 'Protect her,' she'd said. The last thing she'll ever ask of him. How could he ignore that? It's his job now, lookin' out for her Dawnie.

'Spike is the strongest fighter we have! He stays.' He let out a long sigh.

"Yeah, let's hang. How about we get some food in you, Pet?"

"I'm not hungry," she said, turning her head away defiantly.

"Well, then let's get some nicotine in me," he said reasonably. He'd be better equipped to handle whatever the dawn, or Dawn would throw at him after a fag. Damn Summers' women. Should've been lawyers, the lot of them. He needed one anyway for the hangover, both of the alcohol and emotional variety.

He let her trail after him out onto the porch where the awning provided cover from the sun. They stood in silence for a couple of minutes, exchanging weird glances. Spike can see her working up to say whatever it is that's brewing in her head. Finally, she asks tentatively. "Can I have some?" 

Spike choked on his cigarette, she had a way of making him do that. "How about you get inside and eat your breakfast and I'll do you one better by pretending that I didn't just hear you say that," he replied darkly.

She spun on her heel and marched back into the house, visibly angry, but smart enough to not talk back for once. He might've bloody thumped her. He scoffed angrily and drew more deeply off the cigarette than he was before. "Lil' bit's really asking for old Spike to kick her ass," he muttered under his breath with a shake of his head. "What do I do, Buffy," he asked quietly, smoke pouring out of his nostrils. He used the heel of his boot to snuff out his cigarette before going back in the house himself.

As he closed the door, he once again found himself face-to-face with his grandsire. Angel's eyes bore menacingly down into Spike's as he leaned on the counter by one arm, one foot behind the other. He was a vision of ease, or intimidation with his usual Angel authoritative stance about him, all superior. Like the world hadn't just ended.

"What's this all about then?"

Angel had clearly been waiting for him and he's clearly pissed. This better not be about the teen, because if Angel thinks he can get in Spike's way of caring for her, or disciplining her, he had another thing coming!

"I just had a talk. With Xander and Willow."

"Yeah? Good for you."

"Apparently, there've been some things going on that I didn't know about."

"Yeah, that can happen lots when you're not here." Spike took another step in the door as Angel continued to glower, letting Spike know he was under his scrutiny. Sure enough, as though he were a playground bully, Angel stepped into his path. "What have you been doing to Buffy," Angel demanded, anger pulsed through him and Spike could see the bands of muscles in his arms flexing.

"So, that's what this is," Spike asked with a squint. "Worried about another vamp encroaching on your old territory? That's bloody rich," he gave a hard laugh. "What have I done to Buffy? Well, let's see, I've been lookin' after her kid sis. Oh, and I was there when her mum was sickly and I was by her side for every showdown with the big bad and I was there when soldier boy pranced off. Fought by her side on patrol. I tried to save her, I tried to give my life to help her cause," Spike was yelling now. He looked Angel square in the eye and leaned in close before quietly asking. "What have you done to Buffy?"

Angel's right hook landed squarely on his jaw before he hauled Spike up by the front of his coat until they were eye to eye.

"Angel," Willow screeched as the gang came running in. No doubt from the yelling and sounds of blows landing. "What are you doing? Let him go!"

"'Let him go?'" Giles was incredulous. "Never understood why Buffy didn't just kill him," he said with a belch.

"Giles, are you drunk," Angel asked. 

"Hit him back," the watcher encouraged Spike. "You both caused her so much pain…" he stumbled. "She was just trying to do what was right and the goodness in her sometimes blinds her...blinded her," he slurred on his emphasis as he struggled with the past tense. He swirled the golden liquid in the short whiskey glass before tossing the rest back. Angel grabbed him by the elbow to steady him. 

"Let's get you some coffee, Giles," Angel suggested, reaching for the glass. Giles pushed back from him. 

"And you killed my Jenny," his voice held a sort of hollow note in it.

"Giles, no," Xander said.

"Not today," Tara agreed with him. Giles looked around the room and seemed to realize that Angel and Spike were the only two not looking to him for how to behave. He's the adult, the grown-up.

Dawn came around the corner and they stop at the sight of each other.

"Here," Willow said, trading his glass for a mug of steaming, black coffee.

"Why were you drinking so early," Anya asked tactlessly. Several aggravated eyes land on her.

"I wasn't," Giles said as he sat down. "I just haven't been to sleep." He sipped at the mug.

"We have like, two hours before the service starts, why don't you go upstairs and lie down for a bit," Xander suggested and walked him out of the room. The pregnant silence left after their departure weighed heavily in the room.

* * *

An hour and a half later, the gang had piled into Xander's car and Spike realized that he was going to have to navigate the sewer tunnels of Sunnydale with Angel. "Bloody brilliant," he muttered as he jumped into the manhole. They were quiet until the last few minutes when nerves made Angel chatty.

"D'you think they gave Giles enough coffee or let him sleep enough," Angel asked as he followed closely behind Spike. Too close.

"I don't bloody care. Sod off!"

"What's your problem?"

"My problem?!" Spike scoffed. "My problem is that this is one of the absolute worst days of my life and on top of all that, I have to look at you're face! I got a drunk watcher who wants to kill me, a little girl who just lost her mum and her sis, she very much needs me and despite whatever horrible things any one of you damned lot thinks, I just lost the woman I love. I'm a little Angry right now, Mate!" Angel pulled back a bit when he yelled. Spike, realizing they had arrived, stopped at the bottom of the ladder. "Poofters first."

"Well, at least I know you still have an attitude," Angel muttered as he climbed and Spike rolled his eyes at him. Angel may be a poofter, but at least he had the sense to leave the sewer talk in the sewers.

It was surreal to be in a moment so surreal and realize it's surreality. The irony of that was not lost on Spike. He allowed his brain to run circles around the subject since it was better than focusing on the watery-eyed conversations and hugs taking place all over the room in polite tones and quiet volumes, yet the room was deafening. 'Buffy would hate this,' he thought as he looked around the room. Aside from the gang, he realized that he didn't know a single guest in attendance. He began to feel out of place the more he realized how much of her life there was that he never knew, would never know. 

Nay! He refused to let the presence of people he didn't give a damn about make him feel inferior about his relationship with Buffy. Instead, he chose to pity the lot of them. They never knew what she was really capable of; who she is. They'll never know all the lives she saved, how many times we had to thank her for the world continuing to turn. They'll never see how truly remarkable she is. 'They didn't know Buffy like I do.'

Buffy. 

The realization that it was the last chance he'll ever have to be alone with her smacks him in the face. The anxiety he felt approaching the large, wooden doors was overwhelming, the ghost of a pulse pounded in his ears. 'This makes sense. I always come around when she's alone,' he thought to himself as the tears pushed their way forward. His movements as he reached for the golden doorknob seemed to be in slow motion. He was hyper-aware of his hand as he twisted the knob and pushed, thinking that whatever was on the other side of that door just might kill him.

When the door swung open with a quiet creak, there was only an ordinary room on the other side. The quiet of the room shrouded him, blissful and private. He turned and relatched the door, careful not to disturb the silence. Careful not to disturb her.

He scoped out the room. There was a door at the back of the room, leading deeper somewhere into the building. Spike tried not to think about where. There were two columns of pews, almost as long as the massive room was wide, slots on the backs were filled with bibles, hymn books and programs, boxes of tissues. Spike never understood why they kept them in the backs of the pews when they handed them out at the door. Though, since he did come in through the tunnels, he was glad for it and picked one up.

The room itself was large enough to seat half the town. Made sense to Spike. Small town, located on the Hellmouth. Everyone knew everyone and there were frequent deaths. Not as frequent as they once were, though. Not since Buffy took up her stake in Sunnydale. 'Damn straight,' he thought, filled with pride for the slayer.

The procrastination had to end, though. He was running our of precious time and he directed his attention to the front of the room. There was a large platform-type stair rather than a stage, an elevated floor plan. It was covered in an exorbitant amount of flower arrangements. Giant and pastel, so many, so strongly scented that the perfume assaulted his nostrils. A photo of Buffy had been blown up and set on a large wooden easel. Her eyes and smile shone right out of the picture, larger than life. Her hair seemingly more honey and golden colored that ever before. The image couldn't have bene more than a year old. Buffy's smile was more weightless than he'd seen in months. Her mum had to have been around, tin soldier still in town, Dawn...just her bratty kid sis. How it had all changed so quickly, like a landslide, the proverbial rug pulled from beneath her feet. Yet through all of it, she stood so strong.

"I wish I could give everything back to you," he said out loud, his voice fading into the quiet of the room, absorbed by the endless hum. His stomach hit his throat at the sight of her coffin. It was offensively big and beautiful, draped in more of the smelly flowers. Gorgeous, yet it loomed with the darkness of eternity. His stomach did flip flops the closer he got, but he fought his instincts to go forward. "I would even give you back the commando, if you would just be here. Just breathe and smile...and punch me in the face if that's what you want, I don't mind. Just come back," he said as he reached her. "I slept in your room last night. I know, you don't have to say it," he chuckled ironically. "You hate that. But while I was in there, I dreamt that I saved you. Again. The first time, I bested the doc, then last night, I caught you. I was up there, right beside you and I watched you jump and I… I caught you. I'm sure the world ended after that, I don't remember. But I remember...your eyes, when you looked up at me. This- ugh!" He sniffled against the sobs angrily. "This overpowering sense of relief. That someone stopped you, that you didn't have to make that sacrifice. It's not just yours, you know? We all lost you. You lost everything and I lost everything with you. You jumped to save the world, but my world is gone now anyway." The coffin lid was closed, but it wouldn't be any harm if he peeked inside, right? He looked at the flowers angrily and pushed them to the foot of the coffin. His fingers shook as he undid the latches, making loud clicks in the still room. He took one deep, unnecessary breath before he lifted the lid. 

There she was, still perfect, even in death. Her smell was gone, wiped away with her mortality, with the soaps and makeup the morticians used on her. It was wrong, but it was her. "Buffy, I'm so sorry, Love. I thought I had it, I had it! I was right there, but that doc, whatever demon he was...he bested me and now you're gone and it's my fault," he sobbed. "It's my fault you're dead! Stupid, stupid!" Spike hit himself in the face repeatedly before coming to his senses. That wasn't how he wanted to say good-bye. He sniffled, a tear falling from him face and landing on her falsely rosy cheek. "Good night, my love," he said, kissing the tear away. She looked so heavenly, so at peace. Finally. She deserved peace. Spike could almost hear a heavenly choir vocalizing.

"Spike?" The nonexistent choir ceased to be heard. An echo of a ghost, it seemed. Angels' sudden approach to his side startled him. Leave it to Angel to interrupt a moment so private. Spike couldn't manage to be angry, though. "How long have you been there?"

"Long enough," he said in a haunted voice as he stared down at the beautiful girl who had far too much for anyone to handle thrusted onto her shoulders when she was but a mere child. Angel leaned down into the coffin and placed a long kiss on her forehead, shaking with grief, with tears. "I love you," he whispered into her skin. "I'll always love you."

They both stepped back down and sat in the front row, weeping. "You really loved her, didn't you," Angel asked.

"Yeah, I really do," Spike dodged the past tense. Seemed to be a theme that day.

"You made fun of me for doing just that, once upon a time. Didn't you, sweet Willy?"

Spike ignored the nickname he'd always disapproved of. "That I did."

"So, does that mean that you know how I feel," Angel asked as he looked up at him, a crack in his voice. Looking into his face, Spike saw a bit of himself. Angel's eyes were filled with tears that streaked down his face, etched with poems of heartbreak. The poet in Spike could read them and understood them well, realizing that though they look nothing alike, Angel was his mirror image. Astonishing himself, Spike clasped him on the shoulder.

"You were there the first time she died," Spike asked, choking on the words. It felt dirty to talk about Buffy like that, like she was dead.

"I was," Angel answered, lifting a brow as the memory flashed across his eyes. A moment of silence followed.

"What was it like?"

"A few scary seconds that felt like forever," Angel chuckled, the happy ending to the memory persevering over the fright he endured.

"And this," Spike prodded.

"A scary eternity that feels like forever."

Spike couldn't see his face, but felt his own turn white, despite not having any blood flow.

'Damn, Woman, you're cutting off my circulation.'

'You don't have any circulation.'

'Well, it pinches.' Was that only last year?

"I feel like I didn't spend enough time with her, like I failed her too often," Angel confided, wiping his face.

"Tell me about it. One of the very best memories I have with her isn't even real. We were all under a spell."

Angel looked almost sympathetic.

"But, we are two of the luckiest blokes on the whole planet just to have known her. So many people didn't get the chance to . And she had a way about her. So often she didn't treat me like a demon, but like a person."

"Yeah," Angel smiled sincerely. "She did have a way of doing that."

"Her light just sort of expanded from within her and engulfed anyone nearby. How did this happen," he asked the question aloud only once, but had been silently asking himself so many times.

It felt weird to be having that conversation with Angel. Spike hated him, always had and the feeling was mutual. That was all they had in common. Their pain was mutual, too though, wasn't it?

It may have seemed odd that Angel was who he ended up confiding in and vice versa, but he did know how Spike felt and they went back further than anyone else in the building.

Spike wasn't under any delusions that he was safe, though. He could be mere seconds away form getting pummeled and possibly killed. They both knew that Spike was the the only one remotely close at having any chance to save her and she was dead. Angel must think it's his fault, Spike surely did.

The young poet wanted to drop his head on his sire's shoulder and cry, tell him to just do it and put him out of his misery. Or to be accepted and comforted by the one he once sought acceptance from. The whim was swept from his mind as the doors opened with a creak and the funeral director escorted the scoobies in.

"And we do like to try and give the family a few moments of privacy before we begin. Of course, you're welcome to as much time as you need." She was nice and placed her hand on Dawn's shoulder. Spike could see that sympathetic gesture was about to send her over the edge. Instinctively, he stepped between them, taking charge of the situation. 

"Thanks so much," he said, shaking her hand.

"You're welcome," she said, looking to see where he'd come from.

"Stand with us, Niblet," Spike said, whisking her away without another word.

He brought her to his side and tucked her between himself and Angel, safe as she could be. They each put an arm around her and she returned the gesture. "Can I go up," she asked, staring at the large portrait of her sister.

"Of course, you can. Do you want me to go with you," Angel offered.

"No," she said with a shake of her head. "I have to do this on my own." She sounded so like Buffy. Determined, resilient, head held high. 

"Go on, then, Pet," Spike said, giving her a small nudge. He felt a sense of pride for the girl that wasn't rightfully his. That pride should be Joyce's or Buffy's. Maybe it partly was his now. He looked back at the gang, Giles speaking quietly with the funeral director as the others hugged, their gazes fixed on Dawn. Maybe, it was partly all of theirs. 'We are her family now,' he decided.

She stepped forward and Spike could hear her heart rate increase with every step. She looked down at the beautifully offensive coffin and stifled a sob. Every person in the room fell respectively silent, the director already gone, leaving behind only those who belonged there.

Dawn bent at the waist and placed a kiss on Buffy's cheek. "Thank you for everything, Buffy. I'll be okay. I will be strong," her voice broke into a wail that seemed to echo forever.

She turned around and wiped her face, seemingly in control of the crying and returned to her spot between Angel and Spike, head still high. Spike was incredibly impressed as she put her head on his shoulder. She pulled herself together so quickly. Where was the terrified girl he saw only that morning? "Let them in," she said and dropped her black veil over her face.


End file.
